Boy Vagabond
by Raven's Wing
Summary: This is where location is crucial, but everyone is lost. modern!fic, dark!Jack
1. preface

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: Hey, look ma! New fiction! (After what? A year? Yeah yeah. Whatever.) For those of you who read _Boy Anachronism_ this format will be familiar territory. For those of you haven't (shame on you) it is really pretty simple. This first chapter is a poem of an untraditional sort, and every chapter following will be an extrapolation on each sequential section of the poem. It is easy to see what I mean once I actually get there, or you could check out _Boy Anachronism_ and get a feel for how this one will be. Enjoy!

* * *

**Warning**: PG (slight sexual innuendo) 

i.) his eyes are all java&jazz  
something's always brewing&unresolved  
leather/westward bound  
he has such big dreams  
they're spilling over into hers  
tonight she doesn't mind so much  
-------------------->> >> >> >> > (she doesn't dream)

ii.)  
her smile is all sugar&silk  
all untried innocence&unbroken trust  
(he swears there's nothing like it)  
he flips through her pages (but there's nothing flippant about it)  
book marks are superfluous  
he intends to memorize her  
------------------>> >> >> .> >> (she's let him)

iii.)  
his thoughts are all bullets&brilliance  
everything about him rapid fire&radiant  
ink/coffee stains ruin sheets  
(some stains never come out)  
broken bindings&dog eared corners  
he never check the safety

iv.)  
her laugh is all lemonade&lace  
completely antebellum belles&debutantes  
they gravitate to the familiar  
&& it is drying his flow  
HE SAYS:  
"change facilitates growth."  
he never could say a word that mattered  
(unless he wrote it down first)

v.)  
his room is all crystal&capital buildings  
beautiful outside&utter clutter inside  
those scribbled words are poetic abortions  
to emotions which are simply inconvenient  
she plays mother&cleans up after him  
(it is their biggest pretend)

vi.)  
her secrets are all hollywood tabloids&high school gossip  
uncompromisably compromised&juvinille  
folded/u n f o l d e d like a child's origami  
her creases are worn thin on the edges  
it would be all too easy to rip her to shreds  
----------------------->> (&& he knows it)

vii.)  
his plans are 2nd grade&spectacular  
uninhibited by reality®ulations;  
but he could sell lies to Lucifer  
(he's done it before)  
SHE SAYS:  
"sunsets are always so beautiful."  
HE SAYS:  
"people are always so impressed with things turned upside down."

viii.)  
her beauty is all fireworks&frustration  
always better in person&always out of reach  
2nd to the right && straight on till 3 break  
(they're always losing their way)  
he takes her (wherever she wants to go)  
but only if she wants where he needs to be

ix.)  
his language is all canvas&chameleon  
constantly embellished&ever changing  
he'll say anything to get what he wants  
(she'd do it before he asked)  
the end of the earth isn't far in promises  
but high mileage lessens value

x.)  
her kisses are all lion tamers&licorice  
inexcusably insane(except for the entertainment value)&chewable  
he keeps ones in his back pocket for a snack to share  
laced fingers under tables(so 7th grade)  
HE SAYS:  
"see the lies in their smiles?"  
she wonders if he saw hers

xi.) his 3 is all veteran&violated  
covered in battle scars&broken barriers  
he blows fantasies like smoke through her  
pollution colored fairy dust sparkle  
she's getting sick from his 2nd hand dreams  
(he is deficient)

xii.)  
her hair is all superstition&spiderwebs  
unapologetically nonsensical&tangled  
fingers wade through mated clumps  
they've both been running too long to care  
(from what were they running?)  
THEY SAY:  
"just a little bit further - we're almost home."

xiii.)  
his body is all high society&hyperbole  
tirelessly full of (backhanded) compliments&exaggeration  
his grammar is eXXXquisite (but his handwriting atrocious)  
the use 3 letters as kindling  
they're just weighing them down  
it's best to remove the evidence

xiv.)  
her touch is all tightropes&tide pools  
stretched out&reserved  
hands cradled to her breast (so maternal)  
he can't be her storyteller tonight  
the ticking wasn't enough warning for them  
(they never saw the end coming)

xv.)  
their lives were like the shoes on their feet  
(sketchers v. doc martins)  
over used&under appreciated  
(worn thin/out)  
&& they never could get them quite far enough  
(it wasn't in their sole)

* * *

**A/N**: All right. Just to get it out there: this is _not_ going to be the same as _Boy Anachronism_. There will be similarities (the format, the style, the fact that it is about _Newsies_, I wrote it, and angst will probably happen in great quantities…) but it is not going to be the same (it's going to be longer and it doesn't have to do with Spot (points to the first person who guesses who the newsie is!)) With all that said: here is to another great run and hopefully something worth reading. It's been a year as a work in progress but I finally have it together enough to post it. 


	2. i

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: So here we go onward to extrapolate upon the ideas!

* * *

**Warning**: PG (slight sexual innuendo)

* * *

i.)  
his eyes are all java&jazz  
something's always brewing&unresolved  
leather/westward bound  
he has such big dreams  
they're spilling over into hers  
tonight she doesn't mind so much  
-------------------->> >> > (she doesn't dream)

Boy Vagabond was never good at keeping a low profile. Even tucked into a dark corner like his memories or sitting alone like his dreams he had a manner which drew attention. Everyone noticed when he was there (like they would notice any proper tragedy) but only she noticed when he was gone. While he wasn't a regular to the coffee shop (she would know – she works too much) she could tell you what he would order (a cup of that day's special herbal tea) and she could tell you where he'd sit (the overstuffed chair in the middle of the room). She watched him map out his intentions in a leather bound journal from her place behind the counter (she always was unintentionally distant) and she always wondered where he was going and from where he was coming. The counter behind which she hid was hardly enough of a barricade to keep him from storming her citadel (it wasn't that she'd try to stop him anyway).

Ink stained fingers brush matching coffee stains in a common exchange (warm skin replaced by cold cash). She notices the darkness in his eyes (a black wink tucked into the corner of those ideal tainted orbs). It is a flickering shadow beneath lighter pretences (there are so many plans in those eyes) and a constant reminder of when he isn't there. They never say a word past business. It isn't that they are shy it is just that it was never the right time or place. Still he always tells her secrets and makes her promises without words (or introductions). She is building castles of clouds with airy turrets like children build sandcastles by the shore (neither have a proper foundation but are so fun while they last).

She is self conscious (conscious of her self or his self?) in a uniform as ill fitting as they are but she still wants to tie him up in her apron strings. The world never considered her something dainty or gentile no matter how hard she tried to hide the burns from spilling boiling drinks on her hands and arms. Working girls somehow lacked the ability to transform to higher graces despite the Cinderella fallacy (but she swore he looked at her like she was Aphrodite).

He is an artist even if he'd never call himself such (he finds the term cliché) with long fingers tapered to elegance and a long tongue trained to lust. His sensuality is unintentional but that doesn't mean his is unaware of the way women look at him with desire twitching on the corner of their mouths. Inexperienced wouldn't be the right word to describe him (he has felt the way a woman feels from the inside) but there is a naïveté of ideals which burns previous escapades from his mind (he was always rather forgetful).

Tonight she's closing shop (she's already closed herself to the public) even though she's opening the next morning. She knows she works too much but she doesn't have anyone waiting for her when she gets home except a goldfish who turned belly up two days before this one. She swears she is going to bury him as soon as she buys a plant for a plot of dirt (her dirty city apartment doesn't offer any green space and she's too sentimental to flush him away like a pipe dream). Five minutes past the hour and she's mopping the floor clean of sticky spills and the filth of humanity (people might as well just piss on the floor). With a tune she doesn't know hummed under her breath (and her thoughts loud as the subway through her head) she barely hears the chime above the door when he comes in.

"We're closed." She mumbles before she has a chance to look up and see him standing there.

It's raining outside and the first thing she notices is the grimy silt and water his feet tracked onto her freshly mopped floor (she hates his boyish messes). That dark thought was quickly replaced by the recognition of ink stained hands and sharp cheekbones (she swore that if she touched them they would cut her callused fingertips). As would become their habit – he came to (in?) her before she could come to (with?) him (leaving dirty footprints on the floor and her heart all along his way). An artistic hand held out a scrap of paper to her (his boyish shyness showing in the awkward gesture).

_Come away with me._

Was all it read in a strangely elegant scrawl (it would be so familiar to her so soon). The petition is met with a questioning look and a hesitant breath but it is clear he isn't going to extrapolate or ask again. It doesn't give a when, where, how, or why – but the who and what are enough for her tonight (and she didn't ever want to come back). Without a thought of responsibility or reason she silently grabbed her coat and her keys (why in the hell hadn't she grabbed her umbrella that morning?) and together they left his muddy footprints and her mop as proof that they had been there (it would be a trademark).

She locked the door behind them even though she knew she had no intention of returning there tomorrow to unlock it for the morning patrons (and he had every intention of making sure that she stayed that way).

* * *

**A/N**: … and so it begins. As you can tell it has a similar feel to the style I used in _Boy Anachronism _but it will be different. Maybe it will even have a happy ending? Hey. Don't judge. Stranger things have happened. 


	3. ii

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. The poem in italics is not my either. It is an excerpt from the poem _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ written by T.S. Eliot. I take absolutely no credit for that genius at all. Ever.

* * *

**A/N**: So I memorize poetry just for fun. That doesn't make me unusual. Lots of people do it.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (non-explicit sex)

* * *

ii.)her smile is all sugar&silk  
all untried innocence&unbroken trust  
(he swears there's nothing like it)  
he flips through her pages (but there's nothing flippant about it)  
book marks are superfluous  
he intends to memorize her  
------------------>> >> >> > (she'll let him)

There are postcards of different places all over his walls but nothing is written on a single one (he doesn't have anyone to whom he could send them or from whom to receive them). They're his own kind of wall paper – a paper trail of where's he's been (even if no one knows where he's going). It is a carefree life style but that doesn't mean he is free of caring (he has been known to become easily attached but also very forgetful).

Attachment would be an easy way to describe the way they are touching each other now. His skin is like unwritten poetry in the eerie glow of a lava lamp. He is showing her how artistic his long fingers can be (her body is a canvas that he is painting to rosy pleasure). She tries to return the favor, but he is a blank canvas (much like his post cards) and she isn't allowed to paint him.

The words he spoke were recited verses of Elliot, Longfellow, and Yeats. His kisses are eloquent and well practiced with delicate lines and well placed pauses. It is as though he has done this a thousand times before (and she knows that he has). It doesn't matter to her how long she's know him since she's known loneliness longer and he promised a quick escape from her previous reality (even if he never said a word out loud or a way to get back). How do you escape an escape? It's not something about which she worries. She trusts him automatically (but she doesn't know half of the things he's done when no one was looking). It took her five minutes to love him (and it will take five lifetimes to forget him).

The way his fingers skate down the expanse of her stomach remind her of butterfly kisses she received when she was young (what wouldn't she give just to be young again?). In all of his touches there was a strange childish fumbling (even though it was obvious he had done this before). It was a strange reassurance to her as he helped her stretch muscles she'd forgotten existed. If she tried hard enough she could pretend that she was his first and she his.

It's been at least two dreams and three revisions of her five year plan since she last had been so invaded. When he is this close (or close at all) her words are clumsy at best (he often rendered her speechless which was good since she wasn't always the most articulate) and her hands weren't much better. It would become habit to let him do the talking whether she agreed with the words he was saying or not. It wasn't that she was old fashioned – she just never caught hold of the feminist movement.

"There is no going back once you've left." He whispered (hot and heavy) in her ear.

She doesn't understand what he means (but she will sooner than she could have ever expected). He isn't a teacher but she has the distinct feeling she will learn a lot from him.

_Come away with me_. She could have sworn she heard those familiar words ring out from his mouth (but his lips were too busy dancing across her skin to have spoken). There is a hitch in her breathing and a hesitation in her physical indulgence. The tension in her body didn't go unnoticed and with practiced fingers he brought her back into his universe (a reality that she would find had very different rules than hers). It was a spiralling into a messy pile of limbs and lasting impressions.

"There is nothing left for you back there." His body pressed as heavily atop of her as his words. Before she could protest his lips gave her reasons to stay quiet.

"_Let us go then, you and I,  
When the evening is spread out against the sky  
Like a patient etherised upon a table;  
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,  
The muttering retreats  
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels  
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:  
Streets that follow like a tedious argument  
Of insidious intent  
To lead you to an overwhelming question…  
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'  
Let us go and make our visit_." He ground out each word in time with his powerful thrusts (she'd never liked poetry so much as in that moment.

The clock on the bedside table said that her morning shift was to start in less than an hour.

"Come (away) with me." This time she knew he said it aloud even above the pounding of her heart.

He unplugged the clock while she came.

* * *

**A/N**: So I hope you all are enjoying this. If you are: leave me a note telling me what you like. If you're not: leave me a note telling my what is unappealing to you. If you want to flame me - it's a waste of time. 


	4. iii

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm fierce. Like a lion, or a tiger, or... a jellyfish?

* * *

**Warning**: PG (implied sexuality)

* * *

iii.)  
his thoughts are all bullets&brilliance  
everything about him rapid fire&radiant  
ink/coffee stains ruin sheets  
(some stains never come out)  
broken bindings&dog eared corners  
he never check the safety

According to him she doesn't have a name (or at least he's never called her by one). She isn't sure if it is because he doesn't want to know her name or if he thinks he already knows it. Either way it is shockingly impersonal. It's been a week since he brought her to his apartment and she hasn't left since then (total immersion is part of the curriculum). The longer she stays the less she (wants to leave) remembers the time before this place.

Books (ranging from cheap paperback romances to Nietzsche) are stacked, scattered, and strewn about the floor and every flat surface seemingly without care. The Brownings (Robert and Elizabeth were such good lovers) are shoved in with medical journals. History texts are laced with fiction novels (isn't that how it always is?). She does her best to organize them only to have him unintentionally disorganize them later (they always seem to be working against each other). Cigarette burns scar several covers (he swears he's trying to quit) and his notebooks keep his desk (milk crates and a board laid atop them) company.

Boy Vagabond never plugged back in the clock and keeps the curtains drawn (he claims its to keep out the draft but it blocks the light as well). It makes it so they are never sure if it is today or tonight, but there is always time to find each other. He buries himself in his writing while she busied herself trying to keep a house that isn't hers. There are Styrofoam cups with her handwriting on them from the coffee shop she should remember clearly (she spent most of the past two years there) but doesn't littered among pieces of crumpled paper. He calls those discarded mangled pages his dead ideas and regarded them with cool disinterest (too disinterested to even throw them away fully).

The coffee stains on her hands are fading (but the scars from the burns will always remain to remind her of earlier times). His long nimble fingers constantly are splotched and he leaves his mark on her as well (she knows just how long and nimble those fingers are). The light in his eyes tells her of his big, big dreams and promises her a part of them if she'll make room. He's crowding out anything of Then because he wants her to live in Now.

In a rare moment when he surfaces from his world on paper he looks at her with dangerous eyes. She doesn't know what to expect (with him – she never does) but she hopes it ends with a kiss (or maybe an orgasm). Her hands stilled from her sorting of manuals and manuscripts, waiting, but he never lifted a finger (she always waited for him to make the first move). A strange sad smile crept across his crave-able lips (but it was laced with his standard boyish cockiness) and his head tilted to the side to regard her.

"What is your name?" he asked and she told him. "No. That's not right." He replied to her response and then was back to his writing.

She doesn't know what he means (it seems she rarely does) but she is finding that she knows less and less every day she stays with him.

And (for now) she likes it better that way.

* * *

**A/N**: So I am pretty sure no one is reading this, but I like it so I am going to keep posting it. Maybe someone will stumble upon it and like it enough to review. 


	5. iv

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: I just watched_ Newsies_ with my boyfriend (I know. I'm lucky to have a boyfriend who loves it as much as me.) and I totally spotted a new storyline. There are other things to do first, though. Other things that must happen. Like this story.

* * *

**Warning**:PG-13 (sexuality, adult situations)

* * *

iv.)  
her laugh is all lemonade&lace  
completely antebellum belles&debutantes  
they gravitate to the familiar  
&& it is drying his flow  
HE SAYS:  
"change facilitates growth."  
he never could say a word that mattered  
(unless he wrote it down first)

It's been three weeks since she's come and she still hasn't been able to sort through all of his books (even though she rarely sees him read anything that hasn't come from his own pen). He never lets her read his scribbling (although he reads her like a book) and proudly protects his journal with a watchful eye. It isn't that she would deceitfully look at his work (though she would do so openly if he'd let her) it is just that he doesn't trust her near as much as she trusts him. He's egotistical to think that everyone cares what comes from his pen but realistic enough to know that they would probably be disappointed at the nonsense they'd find.

Watching him write is a voyeuristic activity for her (she is sexually attracted to the forbidden) and she's touched herself while watching him (as engrossed in her own world as he is in his). She can't help but wonder what goes onto those pages. In the back of her mind she remembers Boy Vagabond in a coffee shop writing in these same leather bound journals, but she forgets why she saw him there.

Sometimes he reads what he writes to her. His words wrap around her like smoke (smothering and intoxicating) leaving her light headed and hazy. It is in these moments that he whispers other stories into her ears (when she is draped in a languid stupor). The warm breath from his mouth tickles the column of her neck as he reinvents her history (he's making her whatever he wants her to be and she's letting him).

There are always slow caresses (starting around her collar bones and shoulder blades) that accompany the fabric of words he weaves (and moving down as further as she leans into his touch). It isn't that he is taking advantage of her (she wants this so badly) but he never gives her a choice. Her voyeurism comes to something much more as his words continue to tumble over her with rehearsed eloquence up until he is jerking and spasming above her. Even in the hazy afterglow his babbling trickles into her ear canals and she absorbs it all (she lives for moments like these).

Then he gets up (it's so cold without him) leaves the room and cleans himself (its always a little sticky when they're done). This is becoming surprisingly routine. Normally he would go back over to his desk and paint more worlds to introduce to her when he was ready (but never before). Today he came back to the room and lay down beside her (his eyes sifted dreams through her hair like baby's breath).

"I've lost my words." He whispered soft like a breeze but a meaning of hurricane force. "We have to go find them." He's lying on his side while she stares up at the ceiling (his mouth is so close to her ear but they are no where near touching).

"Where?"

A beat. He's closer now (but still miles away).

"Where the fairies play by the mermaids lagoon." The words are foolish but erotic in the way he whispers them.

Someone once told her that mermaids and fairies aren't real, but that was Then and this is Now. So she forgets she doesn't believe and knows that this will change everything.

It seems she's forgotten (herself) a lot while she's been with him (and it's only just begun).

He doesn't need to say anything else.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to QuirkyDel for reading and reviewing! Love to hear from you and anyone else who is reading. 


	6. v

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. The italicized text at the end of this chapter is borrowed from W.B. Yeats _The Shadowy Waters_. It isn't mine, it just fits the story.

* * *

**A/N**: Oh it's what you do to me.

* * *

**Warning**: PG (dark themes)

* * *

v.)  
his room is all crystal&capital buildings  
beautiful outside&utter clutter inside  
those scribbled words are poetic abortions  
to emotions which are simply inconvenient  
she plays mother&cleans up after him  
(it is their biggest pretend) 

Maps from everywhere have managed to find their way into his piles (Toledo to Timbuktu) and his pens have mangled their pages. The more maps that appear the more everything else disappears (including her resistance to change and her memory of anything before him). She doesn't know (what the hell she's doing) where he's taking her but doesn't care as long as he takes her with him (will he take her? There is always a chance he'll forget to.). He tells her to pack his books (they are the only thing he wants to pack) and she does so in no particular order (since that's how he likes it anyway) and watches him scribble notes on dreams and destinations.

Sometimes she wonders what will happen if she leaves, if anyone while miss her or try to find her, but she's four weeks too late for that. Anyone who cared (was there anyone?) have given over to the idea that she is at the bottom of some river or rotting in a junk yard with rats helping her decompose. Boy Vagabond disappears from time to time, often when she's sleeping, and something always leaves with him. Furniture, dishes, lamps, the clock that never was plugged into the wall again all left without a goodbye (even his beloved milk crate desk found its way out of their lives).

The boxes which contained his (soul) books remained as did the mattress (the frame and box springs had said goodbye even while she slept on them). Finally, when it looked like no one ever really lived there (and maybe no one ever had), his gold flecked eyes shone towards her (they looked like they had magic trapped in them). Three boxes stacked, pregnant with words, and a naked mattress was all that was left when he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against his body. His lean frame pressed suggestively against her backside, those lithe, ink stained fingers spread possessively over her abdomen, and his words wrapped constrictively around her throat (she always had trouble breathing when he was close).

Darkness crept slowly in around the corners of her eyes as he murmured promises of fairy dust (the expensive kind) and how high they would fly. Each word and the reality she thought (that was Then and this is Now) she knew grew dimmer as the world around her faded to black. The iron in her frame was melting as she felt her mind haze and the floor fall from under her. She never struggled against him as he stole her breath. She trusted him with a childlike implicitly (her biggest mistake) and expected him to catch her when she fell (that explains her bruises).

Through the final haze his voice became more demanding and asked her a question she knew he wanted her to answer (and he hated to be kept waiting).

"What's your name?" he asked as stars exploded behind her eyes. "No that isn't right." he disagreed after she told him and there was a strange smile in his tone.

She didn't have time to ponder it and as her world went black she heard him say these words:

"_She has begun forgetting. When she wakes,  
The years that have gone over her from the hour  
When she dreamt first of love, shall flicker out._"

* * *

**A/N**: The lack of feedback on this makes me think I should take it down and rework it or maybe just not post anymore. I can't read minds. Seriously. I can't. If you want more updates you're going to have to give me something in return. An honest review would work nicely. 


	7. vi

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: If looks could really kill – my profession would be staring.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (language, adult themes, adult situations)

* * *

vi.)  
her secrets are all hollywood tabloids&high school gossip  
uncompromisably compromised&juvinille  
folded/u n f o l d e d like a child's origami  
her creases are worn thin on the edges  
it would be all too easy to rip her to shreds  
--(& he knows it)

She doesn't know where they are (did she ever know where they were?). Two days ago she woke up in the passenger seat of a car she didn't recognize (but she didn't recognize much anymore) with Boy Vagabond stroking her with one hand and driving with the other. The sky had been dark and she couldn't the world around her (she'd been locked away with Boy Vagabond so long she had forgotten that there even was an outside). That was the way of it though – he only drove at night so he could follow the stars (second to the right and straight on). .

Questions of money and how he found the car come into her mind but she has her own secrets so she doesn't ask (even though she knows he won't give her an answer anyway). It is superfluous to ask where they're going or if they will ever return to where they were before. Inside she knows that if she wants to be with him she can't question him (she just wants him to love her – she'll do anything). The compass on the dashboard is neighbors with a hula dancer. The arrow points south west (are there mermaids in Texas?) and she wonders where he's taking her (he likes it from behind).

He keeps her in a precarious state of suspended reality. _He_ is becoming her reality and she believes everything he says. There is a confused strain on her face tonight, though (she's breathing uncertainty), and he can sense it. It isn't that she doesn't trust him – she just can't figure out how to trust the road signs as they speed by through the window. She wants to curl into him (she wants him _inside_ of her) and hide from the changing scenery. If these places were changing why wouldn't he? (She's never been guaranteed his certainty.). He's unskilled in comfort (other than primal fucking) so he extends his elegant hand and touches her.

The skin of her arm is cold when he brushes his finger tips against it, but goosebumps rise for a whole different reason (it takes so little for her to want him). She peels her forehead off of the window to look at him (she leaves a greasy smear against the cool glass – they both need a bath) and his hand finds hers. Past that he doesn't know what to do (neither does she) but for now it is enough.

Dawn is catching up with them. No matter how fast they fly – tomorrow always finds them and they wind up a day older. Boy Vagabond has decided that he isn't a morning person (or much of an afternoon person at that) and his world is all that is important to him (could she ever become his world?). They find a windowless motel with profanity written on the walls and chipped Formica in the bathroom (but there aren't any roaches so they consider this a luxury).

Tonight (this morning? He unplugged the clock first thing when he entered) he comforts her in his way. When he touches her – it is gentle first (he is still going to get what he wants). She breathes in every word he recites and sighs at the weight of his body over hers. When it is over and he is clean he reaches for his journal and a pen.

"Come sleep." The request is timid, child like and frightened. Normally he wouldn't have even heard her, but in the quiet of the room the he can't ignore her.

"_There are miles to go before I sleep.  
And miles to go before I sleep_." He replied almost absentmindedly.

"You need your sleep." She is used to him borrowing of the genius of others (she doesn't even ask who said it first anymore because he always forgets what he has just said). He is used to her mothering her (it comes naturally) and usually kisses her to get her to stop (then she comes naturally). Now, however, he agrees with her though he'd never let her know that.

He opens the pages of his leather bound book of dreams and begins to read to her. His voice was familiar and soothing in its magical way of sedating her (he cast a spell over her with his words). It's an unfair advantage, really, but no one fights fair (because this is either love or war). Tonight, however, she tries to stave off the sandman's call, but pendulous lids betray her weary bones (she'll be gone before long) and he wins this time. Once she's asleep he tries to write but his words still haven't come back the way he wants them to, so he watches her float peacefully from dream to dream. There are imaginations of what she was like as a child (before life had time to leave its mark on her face and body) and in that moment he finds her beautiful.

Silently he crawls into the bed next to her. She automatically turns towards his warmth (he's always amazed at how responsive she is to him). He reassures himself that if he takes her far enough away from what she used to call home and replace her Then with his Now then she will never be able to find her way back. He never wants her to change, to grow older and leave him, and he plans to do all he can to have that happen.


	8. vii

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: _A Lie of the Mind_ by Sam Shepard is seriously messed up.

* * *

**Warning**: PG (mild language and sexuality)

* * *

vii.)  
his plans are 2nd grade&spectacular  
uninhibited by reality®ulations;  
but he could sell lies to Lucifer  
(he's done it before)  
SHE SAYS:  
"sunsets are always so beautiful."  
HE SAYS:  
"people are always so impressed with things turned upside down."

Alabama's coast was tortured and Georgia's wasn't much better. The hurricanes had gotten there before they had and gray skies weighed heavily upon them. Louisiana was the worst. The humidity was suffocating (they're drowning in the open air) and the only time she doesn't mind losing her breath is when Boy Vagabond takes it from her. There's a southern comfort in the people still that can't be bled out by tragedy and a refinement in the shattered buildings and boarded windows.

They sleep in an abandoned house (he pried the wood from the windows). It reeks of mildew and broken memories. In its waterlogged decadence they find company with the remnants of someone else's shattered life. There are pictures of a little girl with a smile in her eyes and mischief in her mouth cut from shards of glass and books on the shelf (the ink has run away from the pages but Boy Vagabond still tries to read them).

Together they sort through the things. Boy Vagabond swears it isn't to steal anything – he just wants to borrow it (anything of relative value has already been stolen). She is lost in the photographs of people she never knew. Smiling faces ravaged by floods too unexpected stare at her from behind broken frames and she remembers that somewhere someone might be missing her, but she couldn't remember who they were and where they would be. Anything before him is hidden in a dream like haze (mixed in with the stories he told her while she was under his seductive spell) but she can't help but feel something of her has slipped away. Did he remember who she was before he entered the picture?

For now she doesn't ask (mainly because she always forgets before she has the chance) but she tells herself that someday she will. Today, however, she is content just to be with him (even though she wishes they would leave this graveyard of someone else's memories). This is the first place they've stayed for more than a night and she wonders what he sees in this tattered and torn environment, but his eye light every time blackness creeps over the world and they can venture into the strange culture that accompanies the darkness.

Joining him isn't an option (not so much that he forces her, but because she forgets who she is when he isn't close at hand). They, like rats, creep out in the shadows and through alleyways. There they find others rats like them (desperate – even if they'd never admit to it) in rooms filled with smoke and swinging jazz. The thick air is filled with thicker accents and when dark faces look at them disparagingly she shrinks behind him. The way they stare makes her shiver but the way Boy Vagabond embraces the attention makes her shudder (he's always drawn attention without meaning to do so and takes the good with the bad).

One night they passed time with rats at a warehouse near what used to be a shipping port (but it was chewed and spit up along with their jobs). These rats were more barnacles than men (they stuck to the pier even when it had mostly washed away). The way they spoke of their ships was how most spoke of loved ones and their twisted smiles told dark secrets of what went on when they were aboard. None of them were gentlemen, but a few put on airs like they were. They were pirates, all of them, (with black hearts and rotten teeth) but Boy Vagabond was fascinated with them (was this what he would become when he grew up?).

They told terrible stories of high tides and high tempers. Weeks alone with men you didn't like before you left shore made for plenty of fist fights, furious faces, and fabulous farces (they had time to make up stories as much as anything). The stories intrigued Boy Vagabond the most and she saw him absorb the words and could imagine them bleeding back out onto the page when they returned. The mangled bodies and faces of men who looked at her crudely and drank too much were sure to find their ways into something he scribbled (would he tell her their stories even though she'd already heard them? Would she remember that she'd heard them?).

She lost track of the number of visits to the salty shore dives and harbors for the disreputable, but she never lost track of him. Brassy women with old Mardi Gras beads draped themselves over him with no attention to her close accompaniment. The cheap plastic beads glistened brightly in the smoky light (someone offered to give her some if she flashed her tits but she blushed and turned away) and she hates those women in this moment. He always revels in the attention and she blanches when a woman past her prime lifts her shirt to display her withered bosoms (she wishes she'd flashed that man just to get back at Boy Vagabond for allowing this, but she wondered if he'd care?).

They left Louisiana three days too late for her taste (which was a bitter taste at that). Their car drove into the inferno sky (they were drawn towards the fire) as they hurried towards the sinking sun. It had been awhile since she'd seen a sunset (they'd always slept past twilight) and she attempted conversation.

"Sunsets are always so beautiful." She said.

"People are always so impressed with things turned upside down." He said and they drove on in silence (but not in peace).

* * *

**A/N**: Sorry this took a little while. I've been busier than anticipated. 


	9. viii

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. The poem in italics is_ The Shadowy Waters _by W.B. Yeats. It isn't mine and I don't claim it to be so.

* * *

**A/N**: Do you ever have days where you can just feel sickness creeping into your body? Today was one of those days.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (language, adult themes)

* * *

viii.)  
her beauty is all fireworks&frustration  
always better in person&always out of reach  
2nd to the right && straight on till 3 break  
(they're always losing their way)  
he takes her (wherever she wants to go)  
but only if she wants where he needs to be

Somewhere around Oklahoma (the southwest could wait – he wanted to see the Colorado Rockies) he took up drawing. Paints were too messy and not portable enough (at least that is what he told her when he sold her water colors without her consent). He didn't want to take a picture (it was too touristy) he wanted to create one (just so that it could be exactly as he remembered and not as it actually was). She got used to sitting and waiting while he captured everything he wanted onto the page (he was always recording things onto a page in one way or another) but he never let her see what exactly he was drawing.

Three hundred miles ago she had mentioned that she missed her water colors and he had begun to draw within the same day (it was as if it was his own idea). She is content to let him have his black and white charcoal (but she can't help but ache for the color to create something). His long artistic fingers glide across page after page and she envies him (he has something she'll never understand). It is effortless (like the way he speaks) and focused (like the way he fucks). She doesn't understand how everything he does is unintentionally seductive (but she doesn't realize the kiss in the corner of her mouth is quite darling all in its own).

It doesn't happen till they drive over the Continental Divide, but now when she looks at him she wonders just how far they'll have to go to find his words (is that even what this is all about?). The more they drive – the more time she has to wonder (he isn't the best conversationalist and she doesn't want him to feel like she is nagging).

It isn't that wants to leave him (her little-girl-love follows him blindly) she just wonders (she doesn't even remember where she used to call home). He doesn't look at the maps anymore (he hasn't for the past thousand miles) and she wonders why. She doesn't really care where they're going (and she's pretty sure he doesn't know either) but she just wonders. When he draws he always makes her sit in front of him so she can't see what he's drawing and she wonders what his hazel eyes see that she can't. It isn't that she doesn't appreciate his secrets (she doesn't) but she wants all of him.

It's the one way streets and dead ends that give away his confused path (but his boyish arrogance would never call them lost). They may drive at night, but he can't find his way by the stars (second to the right and straight on). Sometimes he stops at gas stations for directions (where is that mermaid lagoon?) and a cup of coffee, and always comes out in a hurry and breathing hard (they have to get money somehow, don't they?). They drive the fastest when that happens, but that's fine as long as he is by her side. Again, she wonders, but she doesn't ask.

It is their morning (the sun is just setting) and his fingers tangle in her rumpled hair (they slept in the backseat last day in the shade between two semi trucks at a rest stop). He breathes in her kiss and feels the familiar way she melts against him.

"_She has begun forgetting. When she wakes,  
The years that have gone over her from the hour  
When she dreamt first of love, shall flicker out._" He whispered and she shivered from her nose to her toes at those words, but she's heard them from him before (she know she has she just can't remember where).

"Where do you want to go?" he asked quietly and she paused (he'd never asked after her wants or needs and she froze at his question). When she looks at him she can barely hold his gaze (looking him in the eyes is like trying to look past the light).

She spoke the first word that came to her mind: "Home." She said (but she couldn't remember where home was - he'd robbed her of that memory).

A mischievous smile twitched his lips and he kissed her again, but there was no smile in his touch (he kissed her like he was trying to suck venom out of a wound).

"I have a better idea." He was no longer touching her and his foot was on the gas.

She never even had time to object.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to QuirkyDel and Newgirl Poet for reading and contributing to the community. 


	10. ix

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: Santa Fe. Are you there? Do you swear you won't forget me?

* * *

**Warning**: PG (sexual innuendo)

* * *

ix.)  
his language is all canvas&chameleon  
constantly embellished&ever changing  
he'll say anything to get what he wants  
(she'd do it before he asked)  
the end of the earth isn't far in promises  
but high mileage lessens value

They finally found Santa Fe (it's been four weeks and several stops since they left Colorado) and she thinks that maybe he has found the place he wants to be. The faded black cowboy hat that hangs prominently around his neck on his back (he stole it off of a drunk local in front of a neon saloon) looks like it has always been there. A dusty red bandana ties his collar (he stole that, too) and the mischievous wink in his eye glints dangerously whenever he looks at her (he'll manhandle her as soon as he gets the chance).

There are miles of concrete and chrome stretching out around them as they walk downtown, and it is familiar to her. He's telling her stories now about cowboys and Indians; sheriffs and outlaws; gold diggers and cheap whores (for once he tells her about the Then instead of the Now) but she isn't listening too closely. Every town has stories which he tells with great enthusiasm, but his words are growing more familiar than fascinating (his words may fail to impress but he never does).

Whenever they come to a new town his transitions are seamless (though that wink always hangs in his shadow) and sometimes she barely knows him (but she always loves him). She's lost track of how long they've been here, but it has been awhile. He writes here, pages and pages, and draws anything he thinks needs his mark (but she doesn't see any of it). For awhile she believes that maybe this is where they will make a home-stay (she just wants to know that she will stay with him) and she's even naïve enough to start dreaming about a future (he gives her just enough hope to make it plausible).

Today they're staying in the backroom of an abandoned warehouse in the bad part of town (he's stolen enough blankets and pillows from various motels to make a comfortable bed). It's the fourteenth (or was it fifteenth?) day they've shared a makeshift bed here in the windowless cage and she's making a list of everything they'd need to make some place a home (she doesn't write it down for fear that he'll disapprove). All she wants is a place where he'll stand still long enough for her to mother him (maybe for once she'll be able to tell _him_ a story) but this isn't going to be the place where that dream comes true.When they wake the next night his mission isn't finding a new place to haunt or a new taste to achieve, instead they pack the possessions and affections into the trunk.

Like a child she takes a stoic seat next to him and she tries to remember exactly why she agreed to go with him to find his words. She may not remember where she had been or what had compelled her to agree (had she even said a word?) but she remembers that somewhere along this long line she had agreed to help him find the words she never sees (how can you find something when you don't know for what to look?). Maybe she's just as lost as his words are (and she has no idea where to start looking).

They fill up at a small station outside of town (he doesn't pay) and as they speed off into the darkness he leans over to suck her kiss. The taste is intriguing (there is nothing quite as sweet as freshly shattered innocence) and he pulls back just before he sends them crashing over the railing of a bridge. Hearts beat in unified exhilaration for completely different reasons (she's dying and he's never been more alive). Tonight the street signs are blurred when they flash past her vision (she's lost sight of everything) and wonders how long it will take before he actually does kill them both.

"Why didn't we stay in Santa Fe?"

"It didn't look enough like the post card." A hundred miles later.

She never tells him that she had no idea what he means by that (she doesn't remember the apartment in New York or the walls of post cards he had amassed). She never tells him that she has had doubts about this nomadic lifestyle (she has forgotten anything before it, but that doesn't mean she doesn't know what they could have. She never tells him that she'd built a life with him there (luckily she forgets all about it by the time they reach the state line).

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to Newgirl Poet for reviewing. This sucker has six more chapters. They will all be up before Halloween if I have anything to say about it. 


	11. x

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: I've been thinking of retiring from fanfiction writing after I finish the stories I've already started. I need to focus on school.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (seduction, adult themes, sexual situations)

* * *

x.)  
her kisses are all lion tamers&licorice  
inexcusably insane(except for the entertainment value)&chewable  
he keeps ones in his back pocket for a snack to share  
laced fingers under tables(so 7th grade)  
HE SAYS:  
"see the lies in their smiles?"  
she wonders if he saw hers

He is saying things, but he is drunk, and he has always said things when he was drunk. Red dirt from the Grand Canyon stains the soles of his shoes as it mixes with the sandy beach just like his words mix together in slurs and stutters. It's hard to listen to him like this because his dreams only grow bigger and his plans grander (tonight they're going to battle with the pirates that sound an awful lot like the fishermen from New Orleans but laced with the glitz of Las Vegas). Those plans, however, never look anything like loving her enough to stay grounded (he always wants to fly). He kisses her (she used to melt against him but now she wilts) and crows to the moon and any who will hear him (he's such a clever boy to get her to come from east to west). She is far past fighting him and he knows it (she'll do absolutely anything he wants her to do).

The words he says are more real and less rehearsed when he has a little liquor in his system (but that doesn't mean they don't hurt any less). His hands find her as they stumble past a bonfire where college students gyrate just for the sake of contact. He points at the foolish dancing and thinks himself so witty in his taunts. He calls them Indians and says they are his friends today, but tomorrow they might declare war just for something new to do (they've been fighting themselves for their whole lives). Though he's been in her most intimate places she blushes when he pulls her close in front of these people (he a bit of an exhibitionist when he's drunk). Over the crashing waves you can hear the desperation radiating from the crowd they've intruded (and she is adding to it with the way his fingers insinuated themselves under her shirt).

The warmth of his body escapes her for a moment as he runs into the crowd of strangers (she'll never understand why he can't be happy staying in one place) and she watches him. They've come as far west as his car can take them but she's given up on thinking that they will ever stay in one place long enough to call it a home (it's awfully hard to play house when you haven't a house to keep). It is coming clear that his home is wherever he can find an idea to put onto paper (be it word pictures or actual pictures) and the rootless lifestyle is wearing thin for her. He may have lost his words but he's losing her little by little every day they drive.

Tonight fairies are flying around his head as he whoops and hollers with the rest in a celebration of just being alive. He hurries over to her and nearly breaks her in half when he tackles her to the sand (it looked like he was trying to fly but crashed into her instead). They both land with an unceremonious thump with him on top (he likes it better that way) and she can't find her breath anywhere (this time she doesn't appreciate him for taking it). For all the calm control he has when he is sober he has childlike exuberance when he is drunk. He grinds his hips into hers and she pushes at his shoulders (she's heard that sex on the beach isn't it is all it is cracked up to be). He picks them up and she tries to brush the wet sticky sand from her thighs (she has sand in places she never imagined possible).

She wants to go home (but someone has other ideas).

A girl approaches them with eyes like a tiger and lilies in her hair (she's pretty enough to be a princess). This dark princess noticed them across the fire and proposes things that don't make sense to the darling girl (but she understands the primal hunger in the girl's eyes). It shocks her when Boy Vagabond agrees and follows the dark princess to a room as sensual as she is (and of course she follows him – she wouldn't know where to go otherwise).

It starts slowly and she doesn't know how to respond to the different touches (but she sees the approval in the familiar eyes of Boy Vagabond and lets this Indian have her way). In the back of her mind she remembers words warning against this immorality and she tenses when the dark princess tries to find her kiss (she pretends to like it harder than she's ever pretended before now). She finds a pretend in that it is Boy Vagabond's touch straying past the boundaries on her body. The hands are as artistic as those of Boy Vagabonds', but softer, smaller, and everywhere on her darling body (just like the smell of lilies are everywhere in the air).

It is getting interesting when the dark princess licks a question into her mouth:

"What's your name?" Tiger eyes flash.

A breath.

A kiss.

A pause.

A reply:

"I don't know." (and it was the truth)

Boy Vagabond watched this and smiled.

* * *

**A/N**: Anyone picked up on the book I'm referencing through this piece? This chapter made it pretty obvious. 


	12. xi

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. The poem in italics is not mine. It is an excerpt from _The Shadowy Waters_ by W.B. Yeats. It isn't mine and I claim no part of that genius.

* * *

**A/N**: Hey. Tell the people you love that you love them. Don't hesitate. Seriously.

* * *

**Warning**: PG (Adult themes)

* * *

xi.)  
his 3 is all veteran&violated  
covered in battle scars&broken barriers  
he blows fantasies like smoke through her  
pollution colored faery dust sparkle  
she's getting sick from his 2nd hand dreams  
(he is deficient)

The Redwoods are dead (or so he tells her) and Hollywood is just a bunch of backdrops (nothing looks as good as it seems). They've driven the coast and now he wants to see more (there is always more to see or so he tells her). She is now his prisoner (but he doesn't have to tell her that) and will go wherever her wants her to go (she doesn't have any idea how to get back to where she started). Boy Vagabond has her all to himself now even if she doesn't have a clue who she is (she is finally in his Now and he's erased her Then).

She can see now the brokenness of Boy Vagabond (it is a reflection of the brokenness in herself) and how backwards he is to the rest of the world(he doesn't have a Then – all he has is his Now). She'd always known he was different but she had no idea that the difference would take her this far. The boyish charm and insolence that she once found intoxicating makes her sick to her stomach tonight (she doesn't love him any less she just doesn't understand why he does what he does). She'll never understand the things he does or why he does them (she's too grown up for that) but she needs to be close to him so he can tell her who she is (she doesn't even remember her name).

He told her it was a bad dream, that there was no girl with tiger eyes and lilies in her hair, and she wants to believe him (if she starts doubting him now she will have to doubt everything about herself now) but she finds it difficult (she wasn't the one who was drunk). Still she can feel dark artistic hands touching her places and in ways where she was always told a woman shouldn't touch another woman (blame it on her Jewish upbringing) but every day the dark princess fades a little bit more as he introduces new memories into her mind.

It is getting colder and they don't have any winter clothes (they left them behind in New York along with everything else). He craves a change of scenery as much as he craves a change of climate and the compass on the dashboard is pointing south (would they meet that dark tiger princess again?). This time they take a more scenic route through vineyards and deserts (he doesn't want her to see anything twice). At one point he reaches to touch her, but she turns away (even if it had been a bad dream she still felt dirty).

"_Why do you turn away and hide your face,  
That I would look upon for ever?_"

She is so sick of all of his words (she is pretty sure he never lost them in the first place).

* * *

**A/N**: Holding grudges isn't worth it. 


	13. xii

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. The poem in italics is not mine either. It is an excerpt from the poem _Portrait of a Lady_ by T.S. Eliot. I claim no right to that genius.

* * *

**A/N**: We don't have much time. What is really important to you?

* * *

**Warning**:PG (mild adult themes)

* * *

xii.)  
her hair is all superstition&spiderwebs  
unapologetically nonsensical&tangled  
fingers wade through mated clumps  
they've both been running too long to care  
(from what were they running?)  
THEY SAY:  
"just a little bit further - we're almost home."

His eyes reminded her of New York and time she was sure he hoped she'd forgotten (but she'd hung onto just enough to remember the stench of summer and the endless stretches of concrete and steel). Those memories made her crave her water colors which he had sold. He may have been the artist, but she had her own creative aspirations (but he is a blank canvas she is still not allowed to paint even though he's turned her into his own twisted masterpiece). He never stayed rooted long enough for his eyes to absorb the new surroundings but the colors of his home town ran deep within his veins. No matter how forgetful he was it seemed that New York just wouldn't forget him (the chaotic refinement of Manhattan fit him to a tee anyway).

He pulls her along with him in his escapades into seedy slums and magnificent mansions (he's always one step ahead) and never hears her object that she isn't wearing the right things. Her fussing isn't entirely unwarranted (living out of a car can limit hygiene) but she's learned to revel in the feeling of a bubble bath even if the tub is cracked and leaking (absence makes the heart grow fonder). They're used to the grit of New York even if she doesn't remember that New York is the reason why she's used to being dirty (some of the filth she's picked up can't be scrubbed off with soap).

They are always going faster but they'll never catch up with themselves (though he's tried he hasn't quite cracked the time space continuum). They're closer than they've ever been before (to what – they don't know) but they assure themselves that they've almost found it (it helps them sleep). It's hard to be a shadow chaser when the shadows are constantly changing. Tonight they will keep driving like any other night (to a one horse town or a thriving metropolis) and they will break down at the least convenient time (what time is it anyway?).

On the side of the road he looks up at her with grease smeared on an elegant cheekbone (he's looks too aristocratic to branded with such grime) and catches her staring. They've been as physically intimate as a man and woman can be but she still gets flustered by eye contact.

"We've got just a bit further." Sometimes she swears he can read her mind.

"Just a bit?"

"Just a bit." He smile was wolfish when he continued:  
"'_And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?  
But that's a useless question.  
You hardly know when you are coming back,  
You will find so much to learn.'_"

For all she already knew - she was about to find out how much she really did have to learn.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to MushM12 for reviewing. 


	14. xiii

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Poem in italics at the end of this piece is an excerpt from _Remembrance_ by W.B. Yeats and I claim no right or owner ship to those lines. That genius is nothing of my own.

* * *

**A/N**: Sorry it has been a little bit. I've been swamped.

* * *

**Warning**: PG (angst, mild adult themes)

* * *

xiii.)  
his body is all high society&hyperbole  
tirelessly full of (backhanded) compliments&exaggeration  
his grammar is eXXXquisite (but his handwriting atrocious)  
the use 3 letters as kindling  
they're just weighing them down  
it's best to remove the evidence

Even just before sunset - Mexico is scorching (like the fire she used to feel when he touched her) and bone dry (the way she is inside now). He promises she'll be thankful for the jacket soon enough (he talks like he's been here before). They sold his books back in California and his his car under some tumbleweeds before heading down to Baja (they snuck over the border – he calls it returning the favor). When the wind blows here she finds dirt in places she didn't even know existed (people had always told her not to drink the water but she hadn't been told not to breathe the air). Mud bricks make a crude patio and wall in the middle of a small town (she's seen houses with more square feet than this place) and white Christmas lights try their best to imitate the stars (a pathetic attempt at best) but the way they dance in the wind makes her think of fairy dust (how much would it take to get her out of this place?).

It is a simple place compared to the glitz of Las Vegas (he'd been fascinated by the open debauchery) and the glamor of LA (tinsel town's shine hadn't held him still for long). Maybe what he needed was something less complicated for an inspiration though she wondered if he could really find his words here if they weren't in English. He is seemingly entranced by this world with its black haired girls who were everything (dark, exotic, and sensual) that she wasn't (pale, mousy, and shy).

The girls danced around the patio with smooth motions and graceful arms (she can't dance) with enticing lips painted crimson and swirling skirts that match. They all have crescent moon smiles and cheshire eyes. The Mariachi are playing and singing words she can't understand (why she isn't the one dancing with Boy Vagabond tonight?) and a man comes over to her. He's shorter and darker than Boy Vagabond with dark curls and darker eyes. She accepts the proposition of this man whose eyes are blacker than the skies and whose crescent moon smile twists beneath a thick moustache (she tried to tell him that she can't dance but he couldn't understand a word she said). He sweeps her onto the floor and it is clear that she never had a chance to say no.

It had been years since a man had touched her before Boy Vagabond and now an uncountable number of days since she was touched by a man besides him (no one had ever touched her as deeply as he had) even in casual contact. The attention is captivating (she starts to realize just how much Boy Vagabond takes her for granted) and she feels the lure of her old undying need to be attractive. The words he says makes her dreamy even if she can't understand them (she is just sure they're romantic). It isn't until the music stops that they stop (he kisses her hand and leaves her) and she doesn't have to look for Boy Vagabond this time (he had seen exactly where she had been). There is thunder in his eyes (and she knows there will be lightning in his words) when he storms off with her in tow.

Boy Vagabond is the jealous type (he can't stand even the idea of sharing with someone else unless there is self-gratification involved). The words he says are foreign and she wonders which senorita taught them to him (he may be sparing her the literal meaning but there is no missing the death in his tone). In this moment he hates her because he's never been able to see past the Now and remember all of the Then where he couldn't get enough of her. In this moment she hates him because he can't offer her the warmth or satisfaction that a simple stranger had given. By the end of it she is crying in the cold dark of the desert (she's a hundred times colder and drier inside than the desert around her) but he can't comfort her this time even though he wants to (he just doesn't know how to be what she needs).

"I want to go home." She tries to make it obvious.

"_Of ceaseless loneliness and high regret  
Sings the young wistful spirit of a star._  
There is no going back once you've left."

The words echoed in her mind, but she couldn't remember where she'd heard them before (but high regret never came close to explaining the despair she had for letting him into her world.).

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A/N: Beethoven makes me write this way. 


	15. xiv

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

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**A/N**: One more chapter to go after this. How will it end? How could it possibly end?

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**Warning**: PG-13 (angst, adult situations)

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xiv.)  
her touch is all tightropes&tide pools  
stretched out&reserved  
hands cradled to her breast (so maternal)  
he can't be her storyteller tonight  
the ticking wasn't enough warning for them  
(they never saw the end coming)

They haven't said a word since the night at the dance (they never did talk much before but this dry spell rivalled that of their current climate).

It used to be he always repeated himself and told her ideas she'd heard five hundred miles before. It used to be she'd just forget it but it seems she is remembering more than he'd prefer these days (even if she still can't remember her own name). The days have been dry of affection even if they haven't been dry of sex. She's gotten used to going through the motions but she finds it harder to get lost in his fantasy every time he touches her (she's sick of his never never land. She just wants to go home and grow up).

Inwardly she'd always thought that going where the wind would blow you was just an expression, but she has realized that it is reality with Boy Vagabond. No matter how much she loves him or how much he cares for her there is always something he is going to crave more than her caring (there is just something so dashing about daring duels and diligent dalliance). He has no taste for permanence (except maybe her) but she is withering with the inability to sink her roots into the ground (she can't play house unless she has a house in which to play).

But oh how she loves him (or at least the idea of what she thinks he should be) even if she can't bring herself to show it anymore. Nothing more does she want but to make him into everything she needs him to be (which is everything he isn't) but he's a blank canvas and she isn't allowed to paint him (though not from lack of trying). Even though he's transformed her into his own creation (she can't remember anything before he came into her life) she can't return the favor.

They're on a bus which is surprisingly more personal than the car the left back in America. Boy Vagabond had talked their way onto it with broken Spanish and she had ended up giving a hand job (she can feel the grimy eyes of the driver on her even now). She hadn't complained when Boy Vagabond told her to use her small soft hands on the drivers large hard tool (she simply did as she was told like she was raised to do). She hadn't complained when the driver had grabbed at her breasts behind the bus in the darkness as she performed the dirty task (Boy Vagabond had stood behind her so she couldn't flinch away). She hadn't complained when the driver had burst and it had splattered on her hands and clothing (she licked it off and did her best not to make a face at his taste). It was the darkness of his eyes reminded her of a girl Boy Vagabond swore didn't exist (if she tries hard enough she can still smell the lilies in her hair) that set her stomach reeling.

The bus is old and crowded with a floor of straw and dirt (there is a chicken roosted under one of the torn seats) but it will get them closer to the border. Dark faces, smudged and dirty, stare at her and she watches her feet (do they know her hands smell like semen?). She wonders where they are all going and from where they all have come and wishes that she knew the same.

They stop at what once must have been a white (the red dirt has stained it now) stone (as hard and unyielding as the people it contains) building in the middle of the desert. Boy Vagabond is intrigued with its strength and solidarity, but she's more interested in what is inside (he'll never understand her want to know what goes on behind closed doors). The doors are unlocked even though it is night and they enter much differently (her with reverence – he with blatant arrogance). Others follow but none are nearly as out of place as the two that first went in. There are candles burning everywhere, spread over alters and spilling onto the floor (the way they flicker remind her of the way he described dancing fairies) and there is a heavy silence that smothers them (it's always been there they've just never had a place like this to contain it).

Upon entering he shrinks into one of the hard wood pews (he has a sinking guilty feeling in his stomach that this visit isn't going to end well) but she takes penitent steps down the aisle towards the alter (every footstep echoes from the stone floor like her pounding heart). The other passengers took their places in the pews and began their own rituals with little or no attention to the strangers (they had their own souls to save). In a juvenile motion she bends over and removes the shoes from her feet as she walks (she is treading on holy ground) and clutches them closely to her breast. An old woman with her head covered sits in the third row grasping a rosary the same way the girl holds her shoes (they both don't want to lose them) but she goes unnoticed as the girl comes to the alter.

Jesus is hanging from a golden cross (didn't he ever come down?) and there is a golden cup and plate on the crude wooden alter (Boy Vagabond would steal them if he had the chance). A white cloth, almost too clean for its surroundings, hides most of the scared table top (how often had she failed to hide her scars with pretty things?). She's careful not to knock down any of the white pillars of wax in her observance of the holy articles (her Jewish upbringing she had never prepared her for this – even if she didn't remember half of it). Reverently she touches the rim of a golden bowl full of water and notices all the burn marks that weave their way across her hand (she knows there is a reason behind those brandings and her mind churns in attempts to dredge that reason to the surface). Slowly she dips her hands into the water and it instantly starts to turn red from the dirt (she doesn't even know she's holding her breath). Inwardly she'd half expected it to burn her for the sin her hands had upon them (how unclean do you have to be before not even holy water can cleanse you?).

A rustling from behind scares her (she's like a guilty child with her hands in the holy water) and she turns to see Boy Vagabond standing half way down the aisle (the way his hair is tousled almost gives him horns). In her mind she thinks he looks like one of the Lost Boys (perhaps the most lost of all, and charming enough to be Peter Pan) and wonders how long it will be before he grows up (she is fairly certain that it is never). She doesn't belong in this sanctuary anymore than she belongs with him (but she has forgotten how to fly to find her way home).

Her eyes burn.

She's crying now.

He doesn't expect her tears (but then again – neither did she) but they leak and drip their way to the cold stone beneath her feet.

Here is where she realizes that he has ruined her.

"What is my name?" She's breaking and melting all over the church floor.

He doesn't tell her but can tell by the way she sinks to the ground that this is over. No matter how hard he had tried to suck away her Then and fill her with his Now he'd only left this empty shell crushed in a foreign sanctuary. He's angry (he wants to keep her) and he can't understand why she would want to go back to a place where she had to be what everyone told her to be.

"I want to go home."

He thought that he was her home (he was wrong).

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A/N: Thanks to Nerikla for reviewing. 


	16. xv

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Text in italics belong to W.B Yeats or to James Barrie.

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**A/N**: So I thought that I had posted this many moons ago, but apparently I hadn't. Whoops. My bad. So about a year or so later - here is the last chapter. Talk about embarrassing.

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**Warning**: PG (Angst)

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xv.)  
their lives were like the shoes on their feet  
(sketchers v. doc martins)  
over used&under appreciated  
(worn thin/out)  
& they never could get them quite far enough  
(it wasn't in their sole)

It's raining and the world is mud and ash beneath them (the weather reflected his mood). The road they travel is long (however not nearly as long as it was getting there). They don't have time to play on the way back (this puts him in a foul mood indeed) and clouds follow them the whole way. The slap of the wipers across the windshield keep time (the car clock never has worked) and she counts every beat (the changing tempo makes it anything but accurate but it keeps her occupied).

"Boy, why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying."

He is (but part of his charm is his ability to completely ignore any sort of truth or reality). She blocks out his emotion with an attempt at imagination of a brighter future but is defeated by a frightening premonition (how can she possibly find her way home when she doesn't remember where home is?). Boy Vagabond is a good boy who keeps his promises (but only if he remembers them) and she expects him to keep this one.

She still doesn't know where they are, where they have been, or which of her experiences with this boy were real and which ones were his smoke filled words clouding her mind.

All she knows is that she feels older.

Stars twinkle brightly in the sky above them but the clouds keep her from being able to see them (she wonders if he will be able to find their way back to the beginning if he can't see the stars that got them there in the first place).

"_What know the pilots of the stars of tears_?" she whispers to herself and is shocked by those words for they aren't hers (his infection oozes from her like puss from a wound). Oh she has forgotten what it is to fly.

There are no dark mysterious beauties with lillies in their hair and no men who look like pirates to chase after them anymore. There are no stops at mysterious ports or chasing after mermaids in dark lagoons. There is just a lost boy and his mother (she has grown too old to take care of him but she'll never be too old to care for him). Oh how she longs for another game of make-believe but she can't remember how.

It is almost daybreak when something that should be familiar peers over the horizon (but it isn't). The city-scape rises and seems to grow with every passing moment and her heart shrinks with fear with every inch it grows (somehow she knows this is the end). By the time they make it to their destination the sun is just beginning to creep up on them - casting strange shadows and showing the world as it truly was. It has been months since she has last seen exactly how clear things can be when put in the light (it will be life times before she forgets what is was to live with him in the night).

They pull into a street that should be familiar but it isn't (talk about starting over). The city-that-never-sleeps is quiet for now though it won't be for much longer. He double parks and gets out of the car (she still doesn't know how he came to own it and probably never will) she follows suit. When he approaches her it is as though it is for the first time (there is a flicker of something familiar in the plans that hide behind his eyes). There was a cockiness in his swagger and a smirk in his grin that frustrates and endears to no end (it was almost as if just by being back to the beginning he expects her to start this whole charade over again). Oh and how she wants to fly away with him (who wants to grow up anyway?).

"What is my name?" it is all she knows to ask.

"_I saw her glitter and gleam,__  
And stood in my sorrow apart,  
__And said: 'she has fooled me enough,'  
And thought she had no heart."_ She never understood him better than when he spoke in someone else's words but still was no wiser for his reply.

"What is my name?" She asks once more.

"_Why should the heart take fright?  
What sets it beating so?  
The bitter sweetness of the night  
Has made it but a lonely thing._" Once again he replies in a verse which gives her everything but the answer she craves.

"What is my name?" At one point she would have been afraid to ask again, but not here, not now.

"Sarah." It is soft and simple (and you can hear the disgust and defeat in his tone). Oh how he hates that name.

There is no great revelation with his admittance (she had rather hoped there would be). Instead she simply repeats the name that feels so foreign to her lips (and now she knows there is no going back. Now she is just a grown up with a name).

"You won't forget me, will you?" she asks as he turns to walk away.

"_Heart-smitten with emotion I sink down,__  
My heart recovering with covered eyes;  
Wherever I had looked I had looked upon  
My permanent or impermanent images._"

These were his last words to her though they were not his last words (nor was she the last to try to break him of his nasty habits). He hadn't made it half a day away from her before he'd forgotten everything he ever knew about her (he'd never bothered to write about her in his journals). Boy Vagabond was free (though he never could know the pleasure of continued affection or stability) and would fill who ever would listen with his verbal infringement (he is Now she was Then).

She never forgot him.

_And so it will go one, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless._

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**A/N**: The End. Mucho love to all my readers.


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